Obsession

1994 April. The twin prop ATR aircraft took off from Coimbatore airport at dusk that day. Flying time to Madras (not yet Chennai) was an estimated 90 minutes.

We (Arun, Raj, Shiva and I) were the regional heads of business of a reputed hospitality organisation and were returning to Chennai after a wonderful sojourn at Ooty. Though we had been sent there to attend a training and motivational seminar, we spent the rest of the time in buying chocolates and shopping for bric-à-brac at the quaintly named Charing Cross market at Ootacamund (or Udhagamandalam as it is now known).

I was (and still happily am) a spendthrift and thus was returning home with a treasured booty of local chocolates and aromatic oils. My wife and I would savour them in the months to come.

Though it was still spring in the northern realms of the country, the heat was already bordering on the oppressive at Coimbatore. After the salubrious clime of Ooty, the temperature had started to steadily climb as we descended from 2240 metres above mean sea level to 400 metres at Coimbatore. My colleagues continuously berated me all the way as I rolled down my window and refused to let the driver to switch on the air conditioning of the vehicle. The travails of a smoker!

Thankfully it was a brief waiting period at the Coimbatore airport. Though, in those days, we still relied on paper tickets and manual check in processes, we were through to the security enclosure and then on to the aircraft in no time.

I spotted her on the tarmac as we were about to board the aircraft. Smart, petite and very attractive, she wore the wings of a flight attendant. As she examined my boarding pass, I got a whiff of the heady perfume that she was wearing. It was spicy, musky and a tad animalistic – it faintly reminded me of the woody forests that we had descended from recently. As I attempted to return to the present, she looked up at me and beamed huskily, “Have a pleasant flight Sir”. That smile, clichéd as it might sound, was of a billion watts! Her beautiful face and smile were vaguely reminiscent of another but try as hard as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to recollect the connection. Had I not been a married man, I definitely would have been smitten.

It was, as I recall, a free seating flight. We found a vacant row and Arun and Raj immediately opted for the coveted window seats. That left Shiva and I occupying the aisle seats. In due time, the door closed and the aircraft was readied for departure. She smartly strode up the aisle, picked up the PA microphone and introduced herself as the senior flight hostess. Her name was Shweta and I thought that she looked directly at me for a while as she continued to mechanically drone the mandatory safety instructions. Shiva, from his vantage point of the adjacent aisle seat seemed to have noticed it too and his prurient wink confirmed that. For some unknown reason, I felt quite happy. One of my purchases at Ooty had been a faux felt Trilby hat and I was wearing it. Raj suddenly reached out from the window seat and removed it from my head and plonked it on top of his own. She smiled her billion watt smile as she saw that manoeuvre and now I was convinced that she had noticed me.

Soon the flight took off and cruised to the requisite altitude where cabin services could commence. The cabin crew began their hustle and bustle with the food trays and beverage flasks. We had unclasped our safety belts and looked forward to the refreshments. After all, we hadn’t eaten anything since we had departed Ooty and that was 6 hours ago.

After a while, my vegetarian fare and black coffee were served to me and I was stirring in the sugar into the hot beverage. She was supervising the service of passengers two rows ahead of me when Raj suddenly raised his right hand up and exclaimed, “Excuse me.” She looked up and caught his eye and he said, “Water please.” She beamed and sauntered off in the direction of the galley. Soon she returned carrying some paper glasses and a jug of water.

As she leaned over me to pour Raj a drink, I smelt it again. It was woody and spicy and I thought I smelt vanilla. My nostrils flared involuntarily as I drank in the perfume. It was heady, smoky and wild. Raj satiated, she looked down at me and smiled, “Some water for you Sir?” My head was swimming, she was leaning over me and her face was less than a foot away from mine. That smile was so reminiscent but for heavens, I couldn’t place it. I politely declined and whispered, “Some more sugar please.” She trotted away and soon returned with a few sachets of sugar with which I concentrated my coffee, as she watched in amusement.

Shiva interjected, “He likes all things sweet. He is a Bengali – a Bong after all.”

I will never forget her response – “I love Bongs. They are passionate, intelligent and they are ruled by their hearts.” As she trotted away, Shiva again winked at me and now followed it up with a thumbs up. I didn’t care to comprehend that gesture at that time.

The slightly stale vegetable sandwich was saved by the hot over sweet coffee and as I satiated my pangs of hunger I couldn’t help but realise that I was actually following Shweta around her journey through the cabin. At first it was involuntary and then, I must admit, it was a concerted effort. I was observing every move of her and every time that she flashed her priceless smile to another passenger it was beginning to make me cringe with an unknown repugnance.

A few minutes later as I was biting into a slightly dry carrot, cucumber and cheese sandwich, she approached me and beamed, “Some more coffee for you Sir? I will put in extra sugar this time.” Before I could answer, the aircraft rolled unexpectedly and that sent my unfinished sandwich to the floor. As she struggled to regain her balance, my hospitality industry training took hold of me and I was squatting on the floor trying to retrieve the pieces of cucumber, carrots, bread and cheese that were on the carpet. She was there too and as I once again was enveloped in a heady trance by her perfume, she murmured, “Please Sir, you don’t have to do that. Please take your seat Sir.” I continued regardless and after a while, I was back in my seat and all the fragments were back in the tray. She too was about to regain her composure.

As she stood upright by my seat, the turbulence struck again. This time far more violently. The aircraft rocked and passengers screamed as overhead baggage lockers discharged their contents. As my tray table contents, once again, went hurtling to the floor she lost her balance and fell on my lap. Instinctively I wrapped my arms around her waist and held on to her.

The aircraft shook and vibrated intensely for the next few minutes and deep down inside I knew that this was the end of life. A million thoughts must have flashed across my mind but I can’t recall any of them. All I remember is Shiva’s stupidly terrified face from across the aisle which seemed to be telling me, “What a beautiful way to die – with a beautiful woman on your lap!’

After a while, the turbulence decreased and the screams ceased and I relinquished my hold on her. She stood up and looked down at me. Her cheeks were flushed and she stammered, “Th-Thank you Sir, thank you.” In the next instant, she was all professional – retrieving fallen baggage, slamming the overhead bins shut and gathering her team together.

Sometime later the flight landed at Madras (Chennai today) safely. As we waited outside the aircraft on the tarmac, for a bus to ferry us to the airport building, she approached me. My other colleagues looked on in askance as she ignored them and she spoke only with me.

“That was a bad turbulence Sir. Thank you for helping me.”

I replied, “Think nothing of it. You handled yourself admirably.”

She responded, “Are you from Madras?”

“I am actually from Calcutta, though I visit Madras often. We work for a Madras based Resort and Hospitality Company.” I gave her the name and she beamed in recognition.

The next question was something that I could’ve prevented but didn’t. Serendipity it was, perhaps. “If I may ask, Ma’m what perfume are you wearing tonight? It is beautiful.”

“Thank God someone noticed. I spent a fortune on it. It is Obsession, by Calvin Klein. Do you like it Sir?”

“I absolutely love it M’am.”

“Not Ma’m, my name is Shweta, Shweta Iyengar.”

In response, I handed her my visiting card which she examined intently.

She then once again flashed that billion watt smile, chirped, “Cheerio!” and smartly trotted  away. Presently she climbed the ramp of the aircraft as our airport bus arrived to take us to the terminal. During the short journey, my colleagues had a good time at my expense and commented upon ‘How some men have all the luck!’ All of them agreed that she bore a striking resemblance to Ms. Madhuri Dixit, who was then the reigning Bollywood Diva and the heart throb of billions across the planet. It is no wonder that I had found her face to be familiar!

The next few days were hectic and I had no time to think of her. My job demanded that I toured a lot, especially the eastern zone of the country, and after visits to Bhubaneshwar, Cuttack, Patna and Ranchi, I returned to my office at Calcutta (now Kolkata) three weeks later. The office attendant Gopal drew my attention to a few potted plants on a window sill. There were three of them. “Sir, they all arrived for you while you were away. They had cards attached. I have left them on your table. They arrived every Monday, the last one came in yesterday.”

The cards were from ‘A.C.BOSE Florist, New Market, Calcutta’ and had a phone number mentioned. I dialled the number and questioned, “I have received a few live plants and I don’t know who sent them to me. Can you please help me?”

“I am sorry Sir. We deliver flowers and live plants after we receive payments in cash. We don’t ask for our customer’s names and therefore we can’t tell you who paid for them. Unless they wish to remain anonymous, they do add a card with their name on it, we offer them that option for free. Since your deliveries do not have any such card, I am sure your well wishers did not wish to divulge their identities.”

A few months later, the telephone operator informed me that there was a long distance / trunk call for me. I received it and heard a husky voice intone “Hi! I hope you have received the plants and that they are doing well. I will be at the Astor Hotel in Calcutta late tonight. My flight to Bhubaneswar is at 12 noon tomorrow and I would love to have breakfast with you tomorrow morning. Ask at the reception for my room number. Rest when we meet.”

There was no requirement for any introductions and before I could respond, she had hung up.

My mind was in a whirl. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. My wife knew all about the anonymous plant gifts and had laughed them off. Should I tell her about this escapade too? After all, I had done nothing that betrayed the sanctity of a marriage. But then again, why was I feeling guilty? What do I do? After some serious contemplation, I decided to meet Shweta and tell my wife later.

The next morning I left home for office earlier than usual (the Regional Director had decided to pay us a visit) and detoured to the Astor Hotel, which I reached at 8:00 am. I asked for her by name and the airline that she worked for and was directed to Room No. 186.

I rang the bell and she promptly opened it – I was immediately engulfed in a cloud of Obsession by Calvin Klein. With her billion watt smile illuminating the doorway, I mumbled “Good morning” as she took my hands and led me into her room. In her shorts and T Shirt she looked nothing like an efficient Air Hostess. Here was a little girl just out of her teens, vulnerable and coy.

We sat on the carpeted floor, three feet away from each other and she suddenly gulped and blurted out, “I am madly in love with you. I know you are a married man but I can’t help myself. I am in love and I am not asking you to join me. Just accept it.” Having said so, she burst into peals of full throated laughter. “Oh God! I’ve been bottling that up inside me ever since I met you. I don’t go around breaking homes and I won’t start with yours. I am just very envious, no wait – I AM VERY JEALOUS OF YOUR WIFE!”

I didn’t know how to react and I don’t think I responded intelligently. In fact, I don’t think I responded at all.

Over the next two hours she told me all about herself, her life and her family in Madras, her elder sister who was married to a Bengali. She brought back memories of the fateful Coimbatore to Madras flight.

After she’d ordered room service for an extra dark coffee with extra extra sugar and some cheese chilly toasts, she said, “This may be the last time that I will be feeding you. Eat well. Marriages are made in heaven; heartbreaks are made on the way to heaven. The best love stories are those that don’t have happy endings. Pardon the clichés. I don’t think we will ever meet again but then who can tell?”

The cheese chilly toast and the coffee were divine and their aroma along with her perfume, as she stepped out of the bathroom, made me feel dizzy.

An hour later, in full uniform, she stepped into a waiting car with her colleagues (who checked me out thoroughly) and chirped, “Cheerio!” I was soon on my way to my office and she on her way to Bhubaneswar. I remember feeling that the time had passed too soon and wished that I could have experienced those two hours once more, all over again.

The plants ceased arriving and after a year I quit the organisation for better pastures. Often I would wonder what became of her. I had no means of contacting her as she had left no address or phone number. I did not possess her tenacity or inclination of trying to track her down through her employers. What would such a search yield? It would be a futile exercise. In those days, there were neither cell phones or internet and nor was present the all pervading presence of ‘social media’.

Over the years I often visited Madras but never did have the inclination to trace her through the telephone directory using her surname, after all, there were thousands of Iyengars residing in that city.

It was July 2000 and I was at New Delhi. I was conducting a seminar for my present employers and had just returned to my apartments at GK-2. My quarters were on the 5^th floor and as I stepped off the lift, a familiar smell met my senses. It was a perfume with a warm, woody, spicy accord. For a moment I stopped dead on my tracks and looked around the foyer, half expecting to find Shweta smiling back at me. Better sense prevailed shortly, after all, other women too wore Obsession by Calvin Klein! Some other resident of the building must have doused herself with the perfume and had passed this way – the sillage which she had left behind was now playing havoc on my senses! I smiled wistfully and stepped into my accommodation.

The smell was much stronger inside. Overpowering and almost stifling. My mind was in a whirl as I stumbled across the living room and opened a few windows to allow some fresh air in. The mystery was now solved. Since this was a guest house, owned and operated by my employers, it was quite possible that some lady executive had arrived during the day and had brought with her the perfume which still lingered within. Now that the caretaker had also left for the day, leaving my dinner inside insulated casseroles, there was no way for me to be certain. I would be able to ascertain the facts only the next day when the caretaker arrived at 8:00 am..

Then I noticed it – a solitary potted jade plant sitting on the dining table. It was a vibrant green specimen and had a card attached to it.  The card had just one word printed on it – Cheerio!

I collapsed on a sofa and stared in bewilderment at the plant. So she was here and she was playing her games again. I rushed and inspected all the rooms of the apartment to see if she was hiding within somewhere. After a while, not finding anyone (as was to be expected) I was both relieved and disappointed. I laughed in embarrassment as I realised, that for a moment, I had thought that Shweta could have walked in and concealed herself within the apartment without the knowledge of the caretaker!!

I examined the bright green succulent. It was a beautiful specimen and would be a cherished addition to my collection. If only there was some way to thank her for it. On the reverse of the card was the name of the flower delivery service, their address and a phone number which I dialled from my cell phone.

“Hello. I have received a Jade plant delivered to my address at GK-2. May I know who sent it?”

“Sir please let me have your full address.”

I complied.

“Ah yes Sir, one potted jade plant. Delivered to your address. However Sir, we cannot divulge the name of our clients unless they permit us to do so. The order was placed at 7:00pm today. Hope you are happy with the delivery Sir?”

I hung up.

The smell of the perfume continued to linger.

I switched on the TV as I sauntered off to fix myself a stiff drink. I needed it.

As I poured the cheap whisky into a tall glass and topped it off with ice, I heard the announcer on the TV drone: “Flight 7124 took off from Calcutta at 6:15 pm and was scheduled to land at Patna at 7:05 pm. The flight crashed at 7:00 pm today just outside the Jay Prakash Narayan International Airport at Patna. There were 50 passengers and 6 members of crew. It is feared that there are no survivors. Stay tuned for the passenger and crew list.”

The powerful bouquet of Obsession by Calvin Klein was beginning to stifle me as I stared in horror at the stock visuals of a blazing wreckage being beamed on the screen. An unknown fear came over me and I felt sick. Much as I tried, I couldn’t shake it off and somewhere deep within, I knew the terrible truth but refused to accept it. A dark foreboding enveloped me and the whisky dulled my senses.

As I sat glued to the TV, drinking copious amounts of the cheap alcohol, early next morning I learnt that Ms. Shweta Iyengar was a member of the flight crew who had perished in the inferno – the flight crashed at 7:00 pm, at the exact time when the jade plant had been booked at the florist in Greater Kailash, New Delhi.

The best love stories don’t have happy endings.